Chapter 5: Aspen Road

On Wednesday I took Bea to see the house.

I still had the key on my ring, a brass one with a green plastic tag Roscoe's grandfather had labeled in marker.

Aspen Road was a mile outside Hollis Lake.

The house was white and two stories tall, with a deep porch and a yard full of maples going red.

It was supposed to be ours by Christmas.

"It's gorgeous," Bea said from the driveway. "I'm sorry. I wanted to say it was ugly."

"I know."

I unlocked the front door, and the smell of fresh paint hit us before we stepped inside.

The living room was empty.

The kitchen was empty.

At the top of the stairs, the door to the small east bedroom stood open, and stacked along the wall inside were cardboard boxes.

They were labeled in blue marker: Faye, books. Faye, winter. Faye, nursery.

A crib was still in its flat box, leaning against the window I had picked.

Bea took one look at it and said a word I won't repeat.

I stood in the doorway for a long moment.

Then I did what I'd promised myself I would do: I looked at everything.

The walls had been painted a pale, fresh white.

On the window sill sat a fan of paint cards, and underneath them was a folded sheet of paper with a company logo at the top.

Bea slid it out and read it aloud.

"Valley Painting. Interior repaint, rear east bedroom, two coats. Client: Mrs. J. Maddox. Date of order: April fourteenth."

I took the paper from her.

April fourteenth was written in the painter's neat hand.

Faye had told us about the cancer in the first week of June, at Judith's dinner table, over a roast chicken.

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